


Male Reader X The Female Molded

by CampGreen



Category: Biohazard | Resident Evil (Gameverse)
Genre: F/M, Horror, Literature, fan fiction
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-03
Updated: 2018-02-03
Packaged: 2019-03-12 20:54:31
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 3
Words: 3,518
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13555398
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CampGreen/pseuds/CampGreen
Summary: Let's just say this is an early Mardi Gras holiday special or something. If you want to see the Bakers, go read my Sawyer Family story instead. The Molded are from Capcom's Resident Evil 7: Biohazard.





	1. Baker Family Ranch

Only the loneliest, most desolate forests of Louisiana impound you and your car as it speeds down the highway, ready to get out of this backwoods, hillbilly wasteland. Your eyes are getting real sick of the color green. To your surprise, in your drive you get a tiny glimpse at proof of civilization hidden behind the array of trees. Some kind of evil-looking residence. A mansion, an estate, a ranch, you're not quite sure. Hell, honestly it looks just rundown enough to pass for an abandoned Civil War-era slave plantation, you wouldn't be surprised, being out here. You pay little mind to it, with a destination in focus - not Shreveport but the airport. Your focus is broken for a split second, however, when your phone vibrates in your pocket, giving your thigh that muscle memory tingle. You glance down at the screen and it's a warning that there's only a few more minutes of juice left in its battery. You look back up at the road and **HOLY SHIT**. Your nose is nearly broken after whiplash has you headbutt the dashboard. You're one lucky son of bitch you weren't blended by all of the glass shards, or flung straight through the windshield. You lift your profusely bleeding head off the wheel, finally stopping the horn and giving nature some peace and quiet. 

You slip away from your seatbelt and out the car with a sick crunch of your nearly broken bones, dragging yourself up out of the grass and to your feet to see the wreckage. Yep, it's totaled. Pancaked by one sturdy tree. God, what the fuck happened? You remember someone in the road. Definitely wasn't an animal. A silhouette of a person tottering across the concrete. Are there such thing as rural hobos? You know you're not crazy, you didn't swerve your car into a ditch over nothing. You check your phone and it dies the second you press the power button. Then, you realize it's a dream. This is all just a culmination of the stress you've built up in your subconscious over the month and now you're gonna wake up, bright eyed and bushy tailed in your bed, ready for a new day. You pinch yourself a few times and accept the reality that you actually just totaled your car in the middle of nowhere, stranded on an untouched highway hours away from any town and with nothing but a useless piece of plastic in your pocket. That old ranch a few paces back looked eaten away by decades of rot but it's your one and only choice. Hope you're ready for a hike. You plunge yourself into Mother Nature, getting barred in by tree trunks, your head showered with shed leaves, and your ankles swallowed by straw and grass. 

A murder of crows flock about from above, and the deeper you get into the woods, the muddier and thicker everything gets. Before you know it, you're knee deep in one of Louisiana's many trademark bayous. An orgy of swamps, marshes, and forests surround you. Dragonflies eat you alive like mosquitoes, and just when you think you've gotten your ass hopelessly lost, a trail of oil lanterns hung from and nailed up on the trees start to glow through the evergrowing darkness from the sun setting. You wonder why a redneck's no man's land like this is traced with freshly lit lanterns... The path leads you to a system of old crickety docks lining the swamp. You must be getting close to the ranch! You ascend a hill that's crowned with a thankfully unlocked entrance gate, labelled "The Baker Family Ranch". After stepping through, you're finally devoured by the hulking shadow of a Southern Gothic mansion. The back door, half eaten by termites, is a crack open, so you make your entrance with a dragging creak of the long rusted hinges. The interior is about what you were expecting. Every centimeter of wall and floor is a massive splinter hazard and it looks like it's been abandoned for centuries, though to your surprise a few flickering lights prove there's still a faint, dying life hidden somewhere in this complex of bark.

 _"Hello?"_ you throw your voice down the filthy corridors, air heavy with dust highlighted by the light leaking in through the cracks from outside. No answer.

You stumble around in the terribly lit ranch, each of your steps bending the splintery planks below. You peek into one of the empty doorways, looks to be the remnants of a bedroom, and recoil in disgust. A thick, inky, rubbery substance infests the walls like a mold growth that's been festering for centuries. A corpse donned in a ragged state trooper uniform is laid stone dead in the middle of the floor, mostly eaten away by the excessive infestation of dry rot. Just before you have enough focus to vomit your guts out, you hear a slimy writhing behind you. Something starts peeling itself from the wall like a bug husking itself off of flypaper. A 200 pound heap of mold messily rips out onto the floor and after your eyes adjust to the darkness, you realize that's no heap, it's a figure. A figure that rises to its feet to brandish a frame so hulking and towering not even a doorway could contain it. It's the thing from the road, the thing that made you crash. If the camel toe and voluptuous, Amazonian build didn't tip you off, the two black balloons swaying above its blurry abs assure that it's female. To be fair, though, the talon-like nails for each of its twenty digits, its sable latex-like skin, and its blank head save for a Chesire Cat grin lined with dozens of hyperbolized fangs all make it hard to think of it as a "she". A two foot-long pointed tongue hangs out of her toothy maw and bleeds with saliva, filthily drooling at the sight of you in spite of being eyeless like a mannequin. 

Joints lazy and bent, the Molded starts slowly shambling at you akin to the walking dead, stepping in puddles of her own slobber with each stomp as pained but wanting rasps escape her frothing mouth. This thing is basically your nightmares personified. A surreal fear with a severity you haven't felt since childhood paralyzes your body for a few seconds, almost letting her land a slash down on your head with her nails. Your fight-or-flight instincts just barely manage to kick in at the last second and fiercely sideswipe the melee attack, a movement so sudden it sends you off balance and to the floor, onto the cop corpse. Your fingers brush up against something metal as you hurriedly scramble back to your feet, and before you know it, there's a pistol in your hand. You put the creature's maw in your sights and mash down on the trigger twice. A duo of bullets roughly tear their way through the monster's upper body, and she lets out a pained rasp as she crumbles to her knees. Then her grin stretches far beyond her nonexistent ears. She lashes out from her crouch and swats the gun across the room, before stomping down on your abdomen and pinning you to the floor. Her tongue dangles and whips right above your face, showering you in saliva. You claw at the gun, just a centimeter out of reach, as the creature psychologically tortures you by teasing a chomp down on your skull so you're seconds away from getting a mouthful of bone blades sunk into your scalp. 

Almost pulling your shoulder from its socket, you finally manage to snatch your gun out from the dust and blast the creature's head to bits with another few squeezes of your gat, finally slaying the crazy bitch. The fully grown grizzly bear-sized mass of black slop crumbles to the planks like a sack of potatoes. You're surprised the thing didn't crash straight through the floor of this rustic shithole. You're laid out for a while, both scared out of your mind from the nightmarish horror and more thankful than you've ever been in your life that you somehow survived. It's like Raccoon City all over again... Then, a delayed thought hits you. If there's a cop out here, there must be his car parked somewhere close.


	2. The Mold

After clenching your eyes and swallowing your fear, you muster enough courage to get to your feet and back to exploring this hideous barn. As you make your way past a flight of ramshackled stairs, several more creatures, just as horrendously sexy as the first one, start peeling themselves out of their black nests like bees crawling out of their honeycomb cells. The overgrowth of mold shapes into a horde of Playboy zombies that all look as if they're bonded with the Symbiote from _Spider-Man_.

They're as dark as night, so you don't get a good look at their numbers before you start running like hell, but it seemed like half a dozen. As you sprint down a corridor, you twist back and fire a few shots, only downing one until you're cornered. The rattling snarls and awkward footsteps get closer and closer as you panic against the wooden wall. Then you notice a large rip in the planks. You smash the hole larger with the butt of your gun, and just barely manage to squeeze through it and escape the horde right as they pile in for a feeding frenzy. You're in the laundry room, it seems, and notice an item atop the washing machine. It's a solution bag, looks like an IV, bursting with some yellow liquid marked "Chem Fluid". You read into the labeling a bit more and learn that it's the same kind of fuel they use in homemade bullets. If you can find some gunpowder lying around, you might be able to craft yourself some extra ammo. God knows you need that. You tie the bag to your waistband so it dangles on top one of your pockets like a holster and head outside. Even though it's night, the lights of heaven burn through the darkness. The lights of heaven are blue and red, by the way. Just what you were looking for, the state trooper's ride! 

The relief that the door is unlocked is almost orgasmic as you scramble into the driver's seat. Keys in the ignition. There is a God! Wait, false alarm. Battery's dead. You crank and crank to your heart's content but no dice. Just a several ton useless hunk of metal. Fuck, why would the battery dead?! You look at the gloomy passenger's seat. The "shadows" ate through the car's glove compartment and up underneath the hood, presumably infecting the engine. You realize you're shoulder to shoulder with a different kind of darkness. The state trooper's partner, swallowed and twisted by the Mold, lashes out from its pitch black nest onto you. You pop the door open right as you're tackled out the car. The Molded raspily moans in your face but you manage to boot her off as your back hits the grass. The thing's nails get caught on your abdomen, tearing five bloody gashes across your belly. You clutch your wound and kick the door shut right before the Molded recovers from her stagger, locking her in the car. She bangs on the bulletproof glass, dragging her fat tongue up the window to wordlessly mock you. She clumsily hyperventilates to fog it up then draws a heart on the glass with the tip of one of her talons. 

Not wanting to give the abomination the satisfaction, you screw off to go look in the trunk and almost cream your pants like a gun nut. A fully loaded 12 gauge shotgun, looks to be an M37, is laid at rest in the back. You waste no time pocketing your Glock to make room for your new best friend. You're tempted to get some revenge on the Molded, but you only have 4 shells, and she technically isn't a threat anymore, thanks to her prison of black and beige metal. You do, however, unbutton your pants and stuff your bare ass against the window, right in the Molded's face, just as a parting gift. While you moon the bitch with a smug smirk of satisfaction painted across your face, from chemistry class you recognize a green herb among all the surrounding foliage, highlighted by the flashing police car lights. You don't remember its name, but you do know that its seeds, when mixed with the right chemicals, make for an excellent antibiotic. You pluck it from the ground and shove it in your back pocket, after it slides back over your cheeks. In your tedious backtracking through the house, you're jumped by two more Molded, which almost catapults your heart out from your ribcage. One of them tries chomping down on your chest, but misses and instead accidentally deepthroats the barrel of your new firearm. Shit, she already did half your job. All you have to do is pull the trigger and in an explosion of gooey grey blood, the beast is headless. 

The other takes a swing at you, but you shield yourself with your 12 gauge so it absorbs the brunt of the attack. With her off balance, you drill a hole in her stomach with a shotgun shell. Like a tower getting its middle removed, she topples into a pile of black offal. You're getting the hang of this localized zombie apocalypse thing! You take a walk upstairs, each stair creaking from beneath your soles like it's about to give out, and find just what you're looking for - a pantry. You pour your Chem Fluid into an empty jar sat atop one of the shelves, then let the herbs you picked stew around in the fumes for a while before it fades into the liquid. You've homebrewed a First Aid Med cocktail. You splash the MacGyver'd together healing potion onto your wounds, and while it does sting for a few seconds, it almost miraculously disinfects the gash and glues the bloody crevice back up. For once, thank you, Mr. White!


	3. E-Type Infection

Your victory is cut short when a Molded busts through the door, ripping the rickety slab to shreds with a single step forward. You blow her legs clean off with a squeeze of the trigger, rendering her about as tall as you. Completely unaffected at getting partially dismembered, the creature sinks her talons into the planks and drags itself across the floor, just as determined as she was with two extra limbs. She's not as determined when you blast her head to chunks, though.

There's plenty of more Molded where that came from, as two more shamble in to take its place. Then another two more...then another two more...oh shit. You try blowing one of them away, but all that brings is a click. Only 4 shells, remember? You chuck the useless shotgun at the swarm to stumble one of them, then get out your pistol and start hopelessly popping shots off. All land, but none earn a kill, only fueling the sadomasochistic freaks to lumber faster towards you as bullets are buried in and swallowed by their rubbery skin. With another emptied firearm in your hand, you again chuck it at the horde, this time in a terrified frustration, and cower in the corner with tears streaming down your cheeks. You try to accept death but your brain just isn't having it, the coward. The Molded encircle you. Four of them seize you by the joints, two for each wrist and two for each ankle. They suspend you three feet in the air as if you're about to be drawn and quartered, or like you're the hammock and they're the trees. Surprisingly civilized for zombies - like a platter they're neatly presenting you to the other two to be ripped to shreds and eaten alive...or so you assumed. One of the hands-free Molded sits on your crotch, squishing you between a valley made up by her log-sized legs. 

She slips her upper body up under your shirt and starts scrubbing your chest clean with her mouth. It feels like a slimy snake is crawling around on your stomach, making you shiver and shudder in a weird kind of ecstasy. From underneath your clothes, she voraciously dines upon the erogenous zones on your torso, though only with her tongue and gums. You start breathlessly giggling, a little bit from getting your belly moistly tickled but mainly at the realization that these zombies aren't hungry for brains, they're hungry for dick! These abominable, ungodly freaks were never trying to kill or devour you. They were just trying to gangrape you! Oh wait, that's not good either... The sixth and final Molded towers over you, upside down from your perspective. She gets on her knees and takes a hold of your head, blinding you with her palms in the process, as she paints the rest of your face using her tongue as a brush, littering every piece of your skin she can find with kisses, pecs, toothless bites, and the like. The two Molded holding you up by your ankles pop your shoes off, peel your socks away, and drag their serpent-esque tongues up each of your soles, making all ten of your toes fiercely curl as they sloppily tickle the nerves in your feet like acupuncture. As you were expecting, the horde feasts upon you, but not with their teeth. 

Four pink tendrils slither up and around your body as if they're feeding off of you like a litter of puppies being nurtured by their mother. The Molded licking your face gets back on her feet and stands over you so your head's hanging in between her thighs. With three of her fingers, she firmly presses down on her mountainous, bulging mon pubis, which like the push of a button pours a whole cup of ghastly vaginal discharge straight down your throat. With your muscles now energized enough to muster an orgasm, your fists clench to match your curled toes as, without even being touched, your penis banishes out a hot spring of semen all over one of the Molded's back. You lay slump in their grasps, drained of all tension after shedding several pounds through a single good climax. They let go, allowing your shining, squeaky-clean body to plop to the floor. Right then, you feel a darkness flow through your bloodstream. A growth in your stomach, like you're about to vomit. Well, what did you expect after getting knee deep in a zombie orgy? Should've worn protection. You look at your palms as they slowly blacken along with the rest of your skin. Your fingernails and toenails sharpen into talons, and your bones awkwardly and painfully sprout in size until you're the height of a basketball player. Your cries of uncomfortable agony soon devolve into the familiar rusty gasping of your fellow Molded. 

Every strain of hair you had is shed, and the Mold infesting your body engulfs your eyes, ears, and nose, leaving behind only your mouth as it mutates into a shark's maw that's still not big enough to hold your bloated tongue. A rotten crack in the pantry's wall shows you a glimpse of an upstairs bedroom, where a broken mirror is nailed up to reflect upon your new body. Just before you're driven insane by the monster you've become, your muscles cancerously thicken until you have the chiseled build of a strongman, which doffs the tattered remains of your clothes. Finally, an elephant's trunk hangs in between your legs. Your penis triples in both length and girth in seconds, leaving you with a literal BBC. Alright, maybe this zombification thing isn't as bad as you first thought. The six Molded whose rape infected you into this creature get in a row and on their knees as they ravenously drool at the sight of your cock swaying from knee to knee like a metronome, all patiently anticipating you to take the reigns and finish the orgy. 

Your dick strengthens into an erection that would rip most women in half, and the six Molded either get on their backs and spread their legs, leave their mouths agape, or turn around and wiggle their asses up in the air as they bury their faces into the floorboards. You pump each with your unlimited supply of cum, taking two squishy handfuls of their cheeks and stuffing their mouths, pussies, and asses with all twelve inches of your stallion dick. After only three minutes of nonstop fucking the brains out of them, they're all profusely bleeding cock snot from each and every one of their orifices and swooning at your feet, silently begging for more despite the fact that they can't even walk after you were finished with them. They'll never be satisfied. As you would expect from a bunch of famished zombies, no one could ever come close to quenching their beastly hungers.

But that sure as hell doesn't mean you're not gonna try to.  



End file.
